After the Kiss (3 page)

Liberation

every school day is

every unfriendly face is

every long hour is

only a public school tunnel I have to get through

to the light of him

on the other side

In the Volcano's Wake

He places his

fired-iron hands around my rib cage—

Hephaestus' apprentice, moving like lava:

firm and solid—formidable—

and yet flowing graceful rivulets.

Our lips—bodies—meet

as he pours over me—smothering me melting me

so I am liquid and lava too,

flowing with him spreading pushing surging seeing

nothing but orange—

orange orange orange orange orange

and those yellow dots that are

the hot center of a fire flickering.

We are burning everything in front of us.

All is

wavering molten—everything molten—thick with

heat heavy and searing.

The trees in the forest

burst into flames

as we approach,

dissolving into cinders as we surge surge surge past

burning everything with the power of us,

everything blazing and burning fueled by us

—incinerated in us—surging and flowing and plunging

until finally there is the edge—the ocean—

the abyss.

And we rush to it and drop— crash

into it then, plunging and swirling down now into

the darkness,

a geyser of steam and bubbles and the

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ascending,

filling the skies—

floating up in billows but simultaneously sinking

down,

down, down into the cold drifting down,

connecting finally to the ground again,

slowly letting ourselves be cooled,

becoming smoothed

and re-formed.

The edges of me disappear—

the edges between us disappear and I

can't feel anything except where his hand

is in my hand

or where our stomachs are together ribs matching,

mouths one mouth.

In the steam wash I really am breathing his breath;

my heart really is his heart, beating.

First Game

The trees are still sticks of winter,

my breath a white bird

flying from the cage of my ribs.

January isn't done with this field

but here I am, watching

the first stretches of spring.

Cold metal seeps

from my jeans to my bones—

not even the grass will show its green face.

The dry air steals sound

before it is heard;

only the shapes of noise happen

—and one long whistleshriek.

Out here

it isn't hard to remember

teacup cocoons,

sleeping bag saunas,

and the coze of lake fires over break.

White on gray, the figures

bend and snap with action.

The sharp crack of a bat

is like slabs of ice, unhinging.

Baseball season

has begun again.

The Catcher

The only one

looking out

instead of in—he is

hunched over the plate: handsonknees,

eyes shaded but squinting,

watching—a panther—

the moments beneath the movement.

Only I know

inside him—haiku swimming.

Those old-soul eyes

see in sevens and fives

—counting syllables on top of strikes—

looking to the day when he is free

to follow

his true heart in classrooms

which this athlete's body will pay for—

invisible poet,

deep watchful creature of sinew and silence.

Goodnight, Sweetheart

Homework/tomorrow's prep/bedtime routine complete

and I am

sliding into quilt-blanket-pillow-land

when the bedside phone beeps:
You awake?

His own phone doesn't even ring when I call back,

it's just

his voice there, quiet,

cozed down in pillows too:

Sorry I had to leave so fast

after the game. The guys were hungry, so—

And I'm so quick to answer with understanding,

that I'm not sure

I sound as sure

as I wanted to try to sound.

Team camaraderie is as vital

as team competition.

I know he has a role to fill,

someone else he has to be.

And I get it, I do.

I get it every time

he thumps them all on their backs

instead of reaching a dirty hand

out to me.

We'll make it up this weekend,
he growlish-purrs,

and—like that—his voice is a wildfire

burning away everything,

scorching and searing only one thought

down to my bones.

Time to Get Started

First writers' forum meeting of the new semester,

and now there is no more

get-to-know-you sniff-out;

now we are seniors

and we are in charge:

a literary band

—a flock of formidables.

Now is our time

to make decisions.

To make flyers.

To take submissions

to prove ourselves.

There is no room for

Sara's kohl-rimmed eyerolling,

Rama's heavy-bored sighs,

the freshmen's giggling insecurity

or Charlie in his too-big jeans playing

existential devil's advocate.

It is time for us to really get going somewhere.

It is time for us to do our thing.

It is time to make a magazine.

It is time to unleash the secret weapon.

It is time to press go.

It is time for us

to show this sorry school

what it means to be poetic

what it means

to feel with meaning.

Seventeen Reasons Why

Out of school once again and I can

finally turn on my phone

wait

the agonizing seconds

to see what beeps in.

I am

already on my way to the parking lot

—Freya in tow—

turning the ignition and

revving my way out of here:

off to errands

instead of another baseball practice,

keeping my points in mom's favor

on the high side—keeping my curfew

as late as I want.

Still I thrill

at that little digital envelope: its beep and its blink.

Still my breath

catches,

and I flush

reading his lunchtime composition,

his illicit thoughts

meant just for me:

tired and sore from

six AM practice—the ache

for you is greater.

The Empress of Gossip Magazines: To Freya (with apologies to Wallace Stevens)

Call the pourer of cheap buzzes,

The tipsy one, and bid her whip

In the bedroom scraps of scintillating secrets.

Let the bitches dawdle in designer dress

As they are used to wear, and let the boys

Bring Blow-Pops wrapped in last month's
Us Weekly
.

Let pure escape be the answer to “or not to be.”

The only empress is the empress of gossip magazines.

Take from the shopping cart of distraction,

Lacking the three un-wonkie wheels, that glossy stack

—from which she embellished fantasies once—

and spread it so as to cover her freckled face.

If her poorly pedicured feet protrude, they come

To show how silly she is, and dumb.

Let her lip gloss be her only gleam.

The only empress is the empress of gossip magazines.

The Accident

Ten minutes in Target with Freya turned into

an hour, so already we are late,

but this songissogood; turn it up; Christ could the

light be any shorter?

Don't forget unsalted butter on the way home

Mom said, but

I should text her to see if there is anything else.

Ohmygod go go GO oh god now I have to get in

that other lane—shit

—Wait—

Where did that—

Why is everything too slow how did

my car my car

[What was that noise did I really
hit
her?]

My god my foot won't stop shaking

and Freya is screaming for no reason.

Wait.

What?

What just —ohmygod.

Here is the lady at my window.

Do I get out now she—looks so angry.

Next to me Freya says
holy shit
and I say

shut up
.

It wasn't my fault.

I should get out now she

—
No I'm not hurt
—

Butmyfootwon'tstopshaking

How did

my car

end up smacked into hers.

What happened who was driving where is mom

my foot won't—

—The lady's cell phone is pressed against her skull

these cars full of staring, angry eyes—

Your fault this is YOUR FAULT!

Don't say anything; don't cry it is

not that bad.

Her brake light is—

and my headlight will never—

I wasn't even going that fast [did my foot slip

off the pedal? it won't stop shaking] she

wants my mom's name here now are

the police.

—The police!—

And Freya is crying—but she isn't the one in trouble.

Where is that

insurance card my

driver's license is here—

All those staring eyes,

what happened it was only one second I don't know

oh god look at my
car
—!

I'm not dead but my mom will kill me

I'm not dead but my mom will kill me

I'm not dead but my mom will kill me

I'm not dead but

the puppy palace

immediately there's the smell of animals in closed spaces, and urine, and desperation—even though this shelter is small and so friendly—and you take your initial big sniff to get yourself used to it even out there in the reception lobby, while your ears ring with the bouncing echo barks of play and need coming from down the tile hall. the coordinator who greets you is a once-thin woman turned soft: one of those short-haired, not-lesbian-but-not-with-a-man-either women who has reached the point in life where she understands she likes animals better than people. her name tag says lily. she reminds you of your elementary school librarian, the one in phoenix who gave you
love that dog
and changed your life forever, even though you can't remember her name. you shake her hand. you hope she finds you satisfactory. there are forms for you to fill out, copied badly on blue paper. you wonder if she thought you might be older on the phone, since she asks if you're from emory. she seems eager enough to have you though, despite the permanent frown between her eyebrows. she takes you back, shows you the open play yard and the big-as-they-can-manage kennel cages. the dogs are all a-bark at the sight of you: some of them eager, others questioning. you coo and shush them as you walk. you assure them that even if you don't stay, even if you don't take them home, while you're
with them you will be sweet. you will make them (you will make yourself) forget—for two hours every thursday—just exactly where they are.

thrift shopping with ellen

you think she is joking at first when, after asking you to go shopping after school with her, she drives you to the biggest thrift warehouse you have ever seen. sure she's all bohemie chic, but you didn't think she truly slummed. after all this girl is so smooth and soft and clean she looks like she was carved from taffy. her house is a four-story antebellum southern sprawl and she drives a brand-new mini cooper. she will go to yale on legacy. consequently you'd been looking forward to getting up to phipps in order to further costume up and fit in around here. pre-worn, over-washed, manhandled garments from a wet newspaper–smelling, fluorescent-lit bargain barn? that's luli's scene, not yours. still ellen is like a piranha at a cow's carcass, piling your cart with old secretary blouses and men's seersucker pants. four trips to the dressing room (at least there is one) later and she has dropped $167 on three garbage bags full. you are holding one sad, lone purple nylon cami and insist, next time,
you
drive.

things to miss about san francisco #12

the pain and stretch in your calves, going uphill. chinatown on a saturday morning, early. zooming across town in luli's mom's gold convertible. marketing with dad—bundles of fresh produce and a whole fish. big bowls of coffee. golden gate park (still). coit tower late at night—supposed to be home soon for curfew. popcorn tossing with sonali. being happy as a family and thinking we might actually stay this time and that dad would just go back to teaching instead of this corporate pop-up tent movearound work-hard-then-go-work-hard-somewhere-else life. ghirardelli mermaid fountain that time with fritz. luli's pigtails so straight and soft and black. science lab with mr. porter. slumber party at sonali's with luli and feeling something like belonging.

things to miss about san francisco (revisited)

funny to look back just now and see how much of “things to miss about san francisco” #1 is so all about people and teachers and rooms full of bubbling faces and projects, everyone laughing and laughing and doing their creative things, when what you really miss now—in this new space with so much space—is the
space
you had there: the free-roam of the park, the wide sidewalks of downtown, the high-ceilinged storefronts and open-happy faces on the street—even the crazy homeless with their piled-up carts. that's what you remember now, anyway, in contrast to what you are also missing about the city that came after it: the closed-in concrete and cold-weather hunching of chicago; the anonymity of a busy street corner; the isolation of a thronged museum. there (in sf) you were open and free and wild and then there (in chicago) you were closed-in and quiet and held close, but quiet in a way that meant thoughtful, that meant growth. now here you are both quiet and closed-in, but the walls have expanded and there is so much room. too much room. room for only you and your thoughts and the paths they trace, leading—always leading—back to the one room (his room) where you felt more free and more intimately closed in than you have ever, ever been.